


Fortune's Favorite and Other Tales

by BurningSilence



Series: Saga of the Sauveterres [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Morality, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, incongruity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-02-13 20:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12991911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningSilence/pseuds/BurningSilence
Summary: A series of one-shots that take place before, within, and after the events of Fortune's Favorite. Just scenes that I either omitted, planned but never published in the actual work, or things that happened off-screen in my canon. Various pairing and gen, this will probably get updated with no real schedule.





	1. 3E 433, Sun's Dusk

**Author's Note:**

> Pretend this happened sometime during Chapter Four, before Felicienne goes back to Cheydinhal but she’s still a bit sore at Martin for the whole Mysterium Xarxes thing. Just a light-hearted moment between Felicienne and Martin. Can be seen as Martin/HoK, but mostly gen.

“This isn’t funny, Felicienne,” Martin shouted on the grounds just outside of Cloud Ruler. The snow had ceased for the time being, and Felicienne had insisted on going outside, muttering something about spending too much time underground. “You need to come out. Now.”

“Who are you, my father?” her voice asked, and he could hear the lilt of it attempting to smother her giggles and he scowled. “Can’t you just sense my signature? Oh wait…” she trailed off, laughing, and he felt a sharp puff of air against the back of his neck and jumped, and felt the snow shift as footsteps ran off.

“Felicienne! This is not the time for games,” he scolded as he searched around him. Wherever she was, she was being quiet. A ball of snow hit his left shoulder and he cursed, feeling the melting crystals trail soak into his robes and cooling his skin as he tried to brush the snow off of him, though it only seemed to make the flakes melt faster.

“What? We’re completely fine. No one’s here; the Blades are patrolling…This is exactly the time for games.” He strained his ears, picking up the faint rustle of cloth against itself on his right side and he concentrated. “You’ve been inside too much. It’s showing. You’re crankier than usual. And about as pasty as I am. Time to get you outside, get some colour back in those cheeks. I know it’s hard for a man of your age–”

“Hey!”

“–But,” she continued, “if you succumb to old age like that, you’ll wind up like Jauffre and then what?” He heard her step around him as she continued to chat. “I mean, come on, how much fun is he? None. None at all. But I don’t think he likes me.”

“Funny that,” he sighed, feeling her misstep too close to him. He reached his arm out and grabbed her around the waist, and chuckled at hearing her shriek as the illusion charm broke in a shimmer of viridescent light. She went limp and he had to tense to keep from stumbling and dropping her.

“Fine,” she huffed. “I suppose I’m done. For now,” she warned. She squirmed until he let her go, and she straightened herself as she dusted off her robes. “We don’t have to go back inside yet, do we?” she asked, looking up at him and he felt his shoulders slump as he shook his head.

“No, not yet. Why don’t we take a bit of a walk?” He saw her turn with a nod and begin to walk off, and reached out to grab her arm. “But no more turning invisible,” he ordered, smile tugging on his lips when her forearm rested in his grasp.

“You’re just upset that your detect life spells are awful. Looks like all that priestly training didn’t prepare you for the real world,” she sniffed, but shot him a wink and her arm left his hold. He gave the limb a brief squeeze before releasing her.

They walked in silence for a few moments, until the clouds overhead began to darken. He watched her tilt her face up and wrinkle her nose as a snowflake touched the center of her forehead and he took his gloved hand to wipe the moisture away with his thumb. She whipped her gaze over to him, eyes wide, and he dropped his hand back to his side.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. When she frowned at him, he cleared his throat and rubbed his palms together. “For yelling. After you got back with the Xarxes,” he explained. “You’ve been doing so much for us, and I shouldn’t have treated you like–well, like a child.”

Felicienne dropped her gaze to the blanketed path in front of them and shrugged her shoulders. “You already apologized for it. It’s fine,” she sighed, then looked back up, her eyes on the mountains before them. “I guess I’m sorry too. For also snapping. And for this,” she told him, flickering green for a moment before dissolving into the air and the sounds of her footfalls scurried somewhere behind him.

He whipped around to see empty snowfall and overhanging pines that stretched back into the Jeralls and he felt a prickle at the base of his skull.

“Damn it, Felicienne,” he barked, pressure building behind his brow, and he rubbed his temple. He heard a giggle come from his right, but the wind had picked up a bit and took her voice with it. “This is not funny. Come out now,” he ordered.

“No!” he heard swirl around him.

“Felicienne…”

“You’ll have to find me.” Her voice paused and the snow fell a bit harder. “Old man,” she laughed.

He scoffed and shook his head, and he lifted her face to peer into the snowfall. He opened his mouth, “Fe–”

And received a mouthful of snow for his efforts.

He spluttered, and attempted to rub the melting ice out of his eyes as his vision blurred and he heard the hum of magic as Felicienne’s spell broke. Glacial water ran down his neck and clung to his hair and little frigid hands gripped the front of his robes before coming up to hold onto his face, and he shivered as he let his hands fall back to his sides.

“Oh my–I’m sorry Martin; I didn’t know I’d thrown it that hard!” Felicienne rushed as her form swam back into view. “Don’t be mad,” she told him. “Are you alright?” she asked as she continued to run her hands over his face and her body was inches away from his. She brought his face down closer to hers. “It doesn’t look like I got you too badly,” she mumbled and he watched the colour suffuse her cheeks and the air leave her mouth in curling wisps as the cold stained the flesh there blood-red. “I’m really sorry,” she apologized, biting her lip, and her hands fell away from his jaw and fussed with his robes.

He took her hands in his, and he laughed, just above the rustle of snow falling against the trees. “It’s fine. No harm done.” She continued to worry the corner of her mouth, and he continued, “Really, no harm done. Not even a bruise. Just surprised, that’s all.” She still frowned as she searched his face, eyes trailing over his features, and he smiled at her again. “I think, though,” he began, “that might be enough for today.”

“I–” she started, her forehead creased, then nodded. “Sure. I’m getting cold anyway.”

Martin held his arm out to her and she flashed him a small smile, barely a quirk of her lips, and slipped her hand around his elbow.

“Such a gentleman,” she teased.

He snorted, and he heard her smother a giggle, before he told her, “What gentleman? I don’t trust you to not pull another stunt like that one again.”

She swatted his arm with her free hand, but continued to hold onto him as they made their way back up the hill to Cloud Ruler Temple, Felicienne’s voice catching on the air and winding through the frosted copse as she babbled about spiced mead and dry socks and heading down into town soon to buy a new cloak.

He didn’t feel the chill of ice-water anymore.


	2. 4E 03, 30th of Rain's Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place on Felicienne’s 28th birthday and she contemplates her changing circumstances after the Oblivion Crisis. An unwelcome birthday guest shows up and Felicienne's reminded that some things can never be taken back, and not everything is so clear-cut in a post-Septim Tamriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for fairly explicit sexual content. Apparently, I can't write smut unless it's angst. Felicienne being herself after the Oblivion Crisis, and daedra being daedra.

Felicienne ushered the last of her guests out of her home, including Baurus and the Imperial he kept insisting she ‘get to know’–-a rather sweet man named Cassiusthough she told him she wasn’t interested, while she bounced Faustus on her hip, wincing as he grabbed a lock of her hair. She looked out of the window at the dark sky and sighed. She hadn’t meant to let the party go so late, but Baurus and the others insisted on it since it was her birthday, and no matter how much she told them it didn’t matter, that she was only turning twenty-eight, they really didn’t need to go through the effort, they still did anyway.

And now Faustus had stayed up long past his bedtime.

“Let’s get you to sleep, shall we, my little love?” she cooed to him and tapped him on the nose. She smiled when she heard him laugh and he reached for her finger as she settled him into his own bed and snuffed the lantern he had at his bedside. Pressing one more kiss to the top of his head, feeling his skin–soft and sweet–under her lips, she let a smile tug at her mouth and she finished tucking Faustus in, the little boy snuggling deeper into the covers. She turned to look at him one more time before she let the door slide shut.

She made her way to her hearth, feeling warm and heavy, mead still working through her from earlier in the evening and she stoked the embers in front of her, feeling the spike of heat burn the front of her form and she shivered. A tingle darted up and down her spine, and she rolled her shoulders back, jerking them, as she shook the sensation off.

She rolled her eyes and sighed before turning behind her to gaze up at the dremora that stood in her living room.

“You cannot keep coming into my house, Sanguine,” she said as she crossed her arms in front of her.

The Daedra laughed and held his hands up. “You’ve gotten good at that.”

She narrowed her eyes. “It must be because I get so much practise.” She glanced back down the darkened hallway. “You can’t pop in like this. I have a child,” she stated, a note of exasperation tinging the words.

“Hey, I’ll be quiet. And what, I can’t visit? I haven’t even gotten to meet your spawn yet.”

“And that’s the way it’s going to stay,” she told him, but couldn’t quite keep her lips from twitching at the corners. “How would I explain you to him anyway? Oh, I have an idea: he’ll come down and say ‘Mummy, who’s that?’ and I’ll tell him ‘Well dearest, sometimes mummies make poor decisions. They might have good intentions, but those poor decisions can sometimes have long-lasting effects and this is hers,’” she finished, pointing to Sanguine. She noticed he wasn’t wearing the armor this time, but the robes she’d seen when she’d first met him in person.

At least he wouldn’t make as much noise this time as he settled into her furniture.

She bit back a huff of irritation as he flopped onto her wooden sofa and he patted the space next to him. “You know,” she said, “I wish you’d pick a smaller form for when you decide to visit like this. It’d be a lot easier on my furniture.” She glared at him as she moved to sit next to him, propping her head up on her fist as she supported herself on the armrest.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him raise his eyebrows. “Are you angry with me for something?”

She scoffed, the smile struggling to crawl onto her face finally emerging when she tilted her head to look at him. “I’m always angry with you for something.” Then, she sighed and looked back towards the fireplace. “But no. Sorry. I’m in a bad mood. I guess I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

He held a hand to his chest. “So polite,” he mocked. “Such manners from you.”

“Shut up,” she muttered. “I can’t help it. I can still hear my mother shrieking at me, ‘Fi, watch your mouth! Fi, remember to send that thank you gift. Fi, if you keep this up no one’s going to want to marry a smart-mouthed waif like you.’ Well, joke’s on you, mum, I’ve gotten three proposals in the last year, so who’s laughing now?” She frowned and bit her cheek. “Probably still her, actually. Laughing from wherever she wound up.” At his amused look, she shook her head again. “I loved my mother dearly, but she probably did not wind up in Aetherius.”

“So when’s the wedding? Is it to that puffed up little Imperial I see skulking around here? He was at your party tonight, right? You didn’t seem too interested,” he mused, rubbing his chin.

She furrowed her brows, thinking, then sighed. “Oh, you mean Cassius? Don’t even joke like that. I’ve tried to turn him down gently but I’m afraid I’ll have to start getting mean.” Her expression morphed into a frown. “And what do you mean ‘you’ve seen him around here?’ When?”

“You don’t have a problem being mean to me,” he complained. “I don’t see why you’d have an issue being any worse to a mortal.”

“Yeah, I wonder why that might be. Wouldn’t have anything to do with you breaking into my home all the time, would it? And don’t ignore my question.”

He scoffed. “Like I have to break in anywhere. And, you know, I hang out sometimes.”

“Around my house?” she asked, angry she had to stifle her voice for discretion’s sake.

“Well, yeah. Sometimes. I get bored.”

“That’s creepy, Sanguine. You’re being creepy. That’s not alright,” she said, frowning. “I have enough problems right now without you skulking about. Baurus is really trying to push me towards Cassius; I think he thinks I need a husband. And he is nice. Faustus hasn’t put him off. Not for lack of trying on his part,” she rambled.

“Trying?”

“He might have tried to set his hair on fire.” She admitted. “Once or twice.”

Sanguine laughed and patted the top of her head. “Boy gets jealous.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “He doesn’t know any better. I think he thinks it’s a game.” She ignored the Daedric Prince’s scoff. “Like you would know,” she muttered. “I might…I might have encouraged some of it,” she admitted, burying her face in her hands. She felt Sanguine shake next to her, stifling his mirth, and she elbowed him. “I can’t help it!” she burst. “He’s so annoying and won’t take no for an answer. Opening doors for me, pulling out my chair, asking after my health…” she winced and nibbled on her lip. “It’s not that he’s doing all of that: it’s the way he’s doing it.”

The Daedra shrugged. “I’m sure one of your…business associates could get rid of him for you.”

She glared at Sanguine and crossed her arms. “I’m not having him killed because he’s too nice to me. I just want him to leave me alone. And for Baurus to mind his own business.”

“Yeah,” he mused. “You do seem to like them mean.” He cast a sidelong glance at her and she flushed under his scrutiny. He leaned over her, trapping her with his arms against her seat.

“Sanguine?” she questioned, pressing a small palm to his chest.

He placed a hand on her cheek and stroked it and she leaned ever so slightly into his touch. “Come on,” he murmured. “Don’t you think you deserve a little fun? Before you’re tied down to Mr. Puffed-Up-Imperial anyway?”

She scowled at him even as she felt that sweet ache build between her thighs and she squirmed as he loomed over her. “Gods you’re a pig,” she griped as he settled himself against her. He hummed and nuzzled her jaw, breathing in and dragging a tongue up to her ear. Her thighs clung to his waist as she tangled her fingers in his hair. “We can’t,” she gasped. “Not here, my son…” she whimpered as one of his hands found its way under her blouse and fondled a breast, tweaking a pebbled nipple.

He groaned and pressed harder against her and she writhed against his body, feeling the outline of his cock pushing into her hip. He bit down on her pulse point and her fingers clenched, tugging at the black locks she held, and his moan rolled over her flesh.

“You poor thing,” he teased. “All by yourself in this big house. You must be terribly lonely.”

She shook her head. “I’m not,” she insisted.

“No?” He questioned, his lips curving, showing a flash of white, sharp teeth. His slid his other hand up her thigh and under her skirt. “Not at all?” he continued, fingers running along the edges of her small clothes and she felt herself burning.

Her hands moved to sides of his face, tracing the red lines that ran over black flesh and skimming his fine cheekbones. “Kiss me?” she requested, her eyes huge and luminous.

He grasped her chin and brought his mouth to hers, invading with his tongue and twining the two appendages together and she whimpered beneath him. His hands roved over her body, stroking and caressing as she clung to him, and he growled when her small palm travelled down his chest and stomach, over the cloth of his robes, and rubbed at his throbbing length. His hands moved to the fastenings of her blouse and began to untie them when she started. He dragged the neckline down her shoulders, revealing gleaming flesh and white breasts, and he broke away from her mouth to leave a trail of bites and bruises down her throat and décolleté before burying his face in her chest, his hands petting and fondling.

“You’re such a little treat,” he rumbled into her, leaving dark bruises where his mouth had been, and she arched her back.

“Sanguine, please, not here,” she gasped, tugging on his hair, and he left a sharp nip and she cried out. “Not here,” she begged. “Faustus…”

He rolled his eyes but scooped her up, ignoring her protests, and she found herself falling against something warm and soft. She struggled with him to sit up, her eyes wide and restless as they darted around.

“Relax,” he scoffed. “We’re in your bedroom. Now stop panicking.” And he hiked up her skirts and shucked off his robes. “You shouldn’t wear such…matronly clothes,” he grimaced.

She glared at him. “Well, I am a mother,” she said as he slid her panties from her hips. He rolled his eyes and spread her legs wide and gazed down at her with heavy lids and she watched him swipe his tongue across his bottom lip and she flushed, looking away. “Don’t…don’t stare at me.” And she tried to pull her knees together but his grip tightened on the limbs.

“I was the first one here,” he grinned at her. “I think that entitles me to look a bit.” He trailed a hand from her knee down to her womanhood and swiped his fingers over it, pressing in—just a bit—before pulling away. “You really haven’t changed since then. You feel the same.” And he slid a finger in and she threw her arm over her face. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it sweetheart?”

Her face burned. “Fuck you,” she gasped.

He hummed, pumping the digit in and out of her, her muscles clenching around it. “You think Mr. Stuffed Shirt would do it for you?” He asked, stretching her and holding her other thigh in his large palm. She turned her face away from him, rose blossoming over her face, and he chuckled. “No, probably not, huh?” He brought his thumb to her clit and rubbed firm circles into it. “You like a little bit of monster in your man, don’t you? He’s too nice for you, isn’t he?”

“Shut the fuck up, Sanguine,” she rasped.

He hummed again. “He wants to though. Bet you have a bunch of the men here wrapped around your little finger. You’d be quite the prize, wouldn’t you, Champion of Cyrodiil? Doesn’t hurt that you’re such a little peach,” he taunted her, landing a slap on her thigh as he worked another finger into her body. She nearly bit her tongue when he twisted them inside of her and spread them, stretching her. “You feel so good, sweetheart,” he groaned. “It’s been too long.”

She bit her lip and covered her eyes again with her arm, burying her face in the crook of her elbow. “I’m not one of your whores, Sanguine,” she panted, then cried out as he removed his fingers and she angled her hips, seeking that fleeting sensation and felt him rumble as he pressed a sucking kiss to her ribs, just under her breast.

He took her wrist in his palm and moved it above her head, and did the same with the other, pinning them there against the pillow. His free hand cradled the outside of her hip as he settled between her spread thighs, his erection nudging her dripping center. He hummed and she saw his eyes slide shut. “I like whores,” he teased, rubbing himself against her, and his mouth hung open, slightly, as his tongue darted out. “I can’t wait to get inside you,” he told her, grinning when she shivered. “You’re so stubborn,” he cooed, stroking her jaw with his free hand, and he trailed his thumb along her soft lips, scarlet-stained and panting, her dulcet whimpers trickling over his skin.

He cursed when she circled her hips, and he ground down harder on her body.

“Three years,” he growled. “Three years you denied me.”

“Thought mortal time was nothing for daedra,” she gasped as a smirk pulled at her lips, and he snarled at her, cutting her amusement off. She balked at the change and his tightening grip on her arms.

“You aren’t exactly a mortal now, though, are you?” he hissed, and for a brief moment she felt her stomach lurch, the fear that she’d gone too far settling in her limbs and must have shown on her face; his own otherworldly visage smoothed back over and his hand came back to touch her cheek. He bent down again to kiss her, and he thrust himself inside of her, drinking down her sharp cry as she was forced open with her thighs trembling around him, and he bit her lip one last time and buried his face in her neck, licking the soft skin there.

She felt the slide and burn as he moved his hips, and thought he mouthed something against her collarbone that felt like “finally” but she shook her head to clear that thought as she locked her ankles behind his back. She closed her eyes against the sight of his black and red flesh, the curved horns, the dancing shadows on her ceiling, the way he felt like magic and fire and tasted like blood and wine and she felt a sob bubble in her throat even as flames licked her skin and electricity shot up her spine, and the sounds of their bodies moving together the only thing that echoed in her little bedroom.  

He was a monster. Just as dangerous as other daedra. More so, she thought, since he had such a way about him that made it seem as though your destruction was your own fault. She supposed it was. He was a monster.

But so was she.

Though his ministrations remained too gentle, too tender, as he stroked and licked and kissed and she arched against him, pressing her breasts again his wide, solid chest. She dug her heels into him and he moaned, plunging deeper and grinding himself into her. “Fuck me,” she told him. “Just…just fuck me.” She cried out when he sank his teeth into her neck, feeling her skin break and he licked at the wound.

“Just look at you. I could do anything to you, couldn’t I?” he taunted, bruising her wrists and grinning when she winced. “I could fuck you for days, break you in half,” he murmured as he dragged his other hand down to her waist, dwarfing it with his large palm and thick fingers. “I could absolutely break you in half,” he groaned, and she felt him grow harder inside of her. “I could do anything and you’d beg me to hurt you just a little bit more.”

She moaned, a splintered sound and she felt him shiver. He drove into her and the sheets became damp with her sweat and she watched his face grow slack as his hand released her wrists, letting her bring them around him as she clung to him while he jostled her body back and forth, moving her more than himself. His hands skirted over her form then, whispering across her flesh even as he bruised her thighs and hips and her and she felt herself ache with want. Want for the bites, the bruises, the taunts. And want for him as she watched a lurid smile curl his lips, and something unfurled in her chest. She reared up and kissed him, letting her tongue twine with his and he settled her into his lap, soothing her back with soft touches before wrapping his hands around her waist, bouncing her up and down on him. His hand travelled up her back, running over the knobs of her vertebrae, before he tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling her closer to him and she felt herself shatter and pant against him while her vision darkened around the edges and she felt him throb inside of her. She collapsed against him and felt him pet her hair, the heat of his hand making her shudder and she felt a lump in her throat that she tried to swallow down. She pressed her face against his neck, squeezing her eyes shut when she felt the sting behind them. She squeezed until she saw violet stars and indigo trails behind her lids. She took several deep breaths, feeling the heated air expand in her lungs and leave her and he just kept touching her.

She extricated herself from his grasp and stood on coltish legs and she ignored the weight of his gaze as she walked to her armoire and fumbled for a shift. She slipped it over her head, listening to him make himself comfortable on her bed and begin to chit chat about things that flowed over her ears and dripped down her neck but failed to register over the rushing in her ears. Her arms wound around her ribs and she dimly heard him tell her to come to bed.

She rested her head against the wood of the door. “Can’t you leave?” she asked, her voice low and thin and she heard his huff from behind her.

“Really?” he drawled. “Enough with…whatever this is.” The bed creaked and she pictured him stretched over it, leaving only enough space for her to curl around him and she shook her head.

“Please. I want you to leave. I’m…asking you, Sanguine. Just leave,” she pleaded.

More creaking, and the floorboard whining under his weight and the air felt charged with electricity and ozone. She continued to face the closet door.

“You know how many mortals would be happy to be in your position?” he snapped and she could nearly hear his teeth, sharp and gleaming, grinding as he restrained himself.

“Then go to one of them,” she hissed. She heard her floor give one more protest before a low hum buzzed in her ears and she turned at last to see empty space and rumpled sheets that she knew would smell of brandy and clover and she fought down the tide of nausea the rose in her.

She took another blanket out of the armoire and wrapped it around herself, the scent of pine soothing her frazzled nerves and she made her way back down to her hearth, and stared into the dying embers until the stars outside faded and Magnus made its daily climb over the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually like the order I posted these in, because I enjoy the contrast between Felicienne in the Third Era as opposed to her after the Oblivion Crisis. My poor dumpster fire baby.


	3. Whoso List to Hunt (Lucien Lachance)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet. Lucien's musings on Felicienne. Let's say this is the last night they were together.

She was soft and pale, a fleeting ghost on the backdrop of moss-covered stone in their shrouded home in Cheydinhal. She danced between flickering shadows, out of sight, ducking out of reach and winding her way through snowy forests and sulphurous gates--her hair a whisper of jasmine and nightshade on the wind as she slipped through his fingers like rainwater. He persisted through brambles and brush, thorns catching his cloak and leaving scarlet trails down her pallid thighs as he grasped at her, clawing her flesh, and she caught him in her arms, long and small, before evaporating in misty starlight that lingered on his tongue and dampened his brow. A glance up, her twirling form shimmering at the edge of the sun, and there around her neck, fair and slim, golden lace round about, and she turned and smiled as her fingers ran along the tatting while she mouthed words that followed him into sleep, “dear heart, how like you this?” and he cannot reach her, though he follows her trail.

As he lies awake and feels her heart hammering against his chest, and gazes down at her--now gentle, tame, and meek--bitterness thrives where starlight once clung since he so unkindly has been served by her poisoned whimpers and sweetened tears. How like you this, he thought, what you have now deserved?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something that wouldn't leave me alone. When writing the softer moments between Lucien and Felicienne during Fortune's Favorite, I had a couple Thomas Wyatt poems in mind, and this is based on the one of the same name.


	4. Ash and Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of my garbage not-poetry. More of it inspired by Wyatt. From Felicienne's perspective this time, on Lucien. But I suppose it could be anyone.

 

He’s woodsmoke and leather and claws that leave trails of electricity running along her nerves and sparking her fingertips; the ice-melt that drips down the ridges of her spine and the ash that fills her lungs as she chokes on blood and spit; the ghost of a steel edge pressed against her throat, the cool metal stinging even as it soothes fevered flesh that jumps under its kiss; and the dark blooms that blossom against her pallid complexion and dot the landscape of her thighs and belly. He’s the silence that echoes in her ears, the rush of static that clogs her skull and burns her sight as she slips under frigid currents, as he holds her down and winds willow shoots in her hair, scratching the tenderness of her scalp and tugging her inky locks in questing talons as the strands curl around strong limbs that don’t know how to let go. 

He moves insistent lips on hers, devouring what air remained and drinking her tears and her heartsblood as it pounds through her cooling veins in thick rivers that stagger with the stuttering of her breast, and she sinks deeper into him, the pads of her fingers skimming the stubble of his jawline, the lines around his mouth and eyes, and she clings to him, twisting around him like hyacinth and leeching what little ichor she can that thrums through him, strangling her, and she presses herself against him, so that she knows not where she ends and he begins and white-hot fire shoots through her and she repays his kindness towards her with brittle breaths and words that dissolve like foam on the Niben--dear heart, how like you this?--and all is turned now in bitter fashion of forsaking as she writhes in shadow, grasping at the silt and mud that staines her nails and palms, russet-hued and thick, and squelches between those digits as he, at last, breathes into her. 

How like you this, she wonders, what you have now deserved?

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taken from the last chapter and from another Wyatt poem. Sort of. A little prose-poemy, a little rambly. But Fi's kind of out of her head so maybe that makes sense. The line "how like you this" seems to have become a bit of a running theme for these two. 
> 
> Been meaning to work more on "While Kicking and Biting" but I've been feeling down and have just been going through old ideas I had and thought I'd stick this here. Thank you to everyone who's read these little pieces I put out and for the kudos. It's kind of nice that people might enjoy some of this. It means a lot to me. Also, I want to point out that I wanted to use the word 'ichor' after reading some of Lysmune's other pieces. I'm happy with it here; it says what I want it to.


	5. Innocence, my Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nonlinear storytelling. Snippets from Lucien's life over the last twenty-five years, up to and inlcuding Applewatch in "Fortune's Favorite." Dark. Mentions of murder, torture, and disfigurement.

His hands are hot and sticky, and he looks down to see his mother’s blood soaking into his shirtsleeves, and he feels a jolt go down his spine and the hair at the nape of his neck stand on end. His face still stings from where she caught him with her switch, and an answering heat trickles down his jaw and the corner of his mouth. He licks at his split lip and regards her cooling body as the blood pumps sluggishly now, staining the wood and creating a halo around her dark hair. He leans down to brush the hair away from her face, ashen and drawn and still beautiful. Frozen forever now, eyes wide and unseeing, locked on some distant point. He’s panting, fist clenching the bone handle of the blade embedded in her ribcage and he pulls it free to wipe it off on her ruined skirts. 

 

He sleeps deeply that night.

  
  
  


His nerves burned so brightly that stars flickered behind his lids, and that same sticky heat is had gushed down his side as something, metallic, rigid, ripped from him and he swallowed the groan that had bubbled in his abdomen. The throaty laughter of the woman in front of him echoed in his ears as his eyes rolled back in his head.

  
  
  


She comes for him, two nights later, through bloodstains and cloying scent of rotting flesh as he lay above the body wilting beneath his bed, and she is all shadows and sharp angles and razor-blade grin with promises of family on her tongue, of a mother and father who loved unconditionally, who only wanted such a small offering in return. Even as he nods she gives him a gift, the first of many, a blade, pitch-black and fine, its weight pressing into his palm while he grips the handle and stands up, not yet eye level with her even at full height, and she tells him to leave for Riften.

  
  


A two day trek for another young man, a farmhand, a Nord, all smiles and green eyes and bright blond hair. He doesn’t ask why.

  
  


A thief pilfers his purse not an hour after he steps into the city and he gives chase, cornering the youth in an abandoned alleyway. He laughs hearing the gurgled sobs of the pickpocket as he pops one blue eye out, then the other, and stuffs them in his satchel, leaving the blind adolescent with his coin and a thank-you. He receives a whimper in return. 

 

It was a fair exchange. 

  
  
  


He cracked an eye open, Mathieu in front of him whose words, at first, failed to penetrate the sanguine shroud that enveloped him. Something hot and acrid coursed through him upon the sight of the younger man’s gleaming eyes as he continued questioning him, taunting him. He picked up the glowing calipers, grinning and smothering the laughter that dribbled from his lips, and he mentioned  _ her _ and now the thought drifted through him as to where  _ she _ is, and that same bile filled his blood and burned holes in his veins, and perhaps she is not coming as this ungrateful snot stood before him while he and his companion discussed interrogating his Silencer.

 

His.

 

As if that capricious creature were grateful for all he’d done for her. As if  _ they  _ were grateful. 

 

Banus leered in the background at the mention of her, and he spat at them, acid scorching his gut as he flushed. Mathieu laughed and leaned in close to him, leaving the calipers inside, and reached for the iron rod from the hearth. 

  
  
  


He hears a sniffle from under the bed. The woman’s son, he muses, as he spies a little foot peeking out from underneath. Her head rolls next to him and there’s a gasp and he chuckles, kicking the body over and watching the pulse of blood flow from her severed neck. He thinks it’s a shame such a lovely woman go to waste like this, but wipes his knife on the bed sheets, staining them rust, and he sheaths it at his hip. He glances back, the boy caught as he cradles what is left of his mother, all thick dark hair and ox-eyed, those blue orbs already beginning to cloud. The boy moans in his throat, a lowing sound, and he nods to the child.

 

The boy chokes on his sobs, rocking back and forth, as he dissolves into the evening air. 

  
  


A decade later, he is Speaker and is sent to a little village outside of Wayrest. The boy--the youth--hurries to come with him, thrusting his father’s heart to him and his eyes blazing and jaw set, and he finds himself smiling at the adolescent. 

  
  
  


Mathieu, again, this time with the other Black Hand members crowded around. His voice had long given out, and his jaw severed some time ago, and his eyes kept rolling back and forth, unable to settle in one spot, on one person. Whenever the door came into view he feels a spark and then molten silver scalded his spine. His breath had been stuttering in his chest. He’d be home soon.

  
  


For all the rage the newest recruit seems to hold, he is squeamish. A few of the other members of his Cheydinhal family have already expressed concern to him, and he takes the youth aside who begs his Speaker to give him another chance, that he has nowhere else to go. The next contract the boy gets, he goes with him. They stalk the man for days, with him telling the adolescent about his earlier years with the Brotherhood, his most recent contracts, the quickest--and slowest--poisons; he also tells him about his favourite cities in the different provinces, how he joined the Brotherhood, about the woman who bore him. The boy just nods along, watching him with avid eyes and he ruffles his light hair. He watches the boy rip open the man’s throat, the spray of blood staining pale skin and fair locks, and he looks over to his Speaker and he nods to the boy.

 

He glows with pride.

  
  
  


Mathieu pressed something cool, sharp, to his groin, groping the bit of unmarred flesh and blood he had left, and the Breton scoffed, pulling it away from his body, and then he felt the pinch of a finely-honed blade as his vision turned white as his vocal cords vibrated as they’re stung while Mathieu’s laughter simmered around them, his grin so wide it split his face. Arquen’s giggles in the background reverberate in the cozy cottage. 

  
  
  


The first time he sees her, it’s early morning, and she’s standing in the Niben Bay in golden armour that looks too big for her, her face pinched as she strips her cuirass and gauntlets off, her green tunic clinging to her form, damp with sweat. Her eyes dart around, and he regards her, this woman, girl, the Listener told him to find: A Breton, pale and dark-haired with big blue eyes and gaunt cheeks. Pretty.

 

She is, he thinks, but weak and frail, all bones and fluttering lashes. Nothing more than a pretty urchin. He scoffs and heads back into Bravil. Light was coming and he could do nothing out in the open. 

 

He peers back at her, and her eyes are skimming the surface of the water, gazing at the horizon, searching.

  
  


He sees her again, in the middle of the day, in the middle of town. She runs into him, a bony shoulder almost knocking the wind out of him and his hand shoots out to wrap around a skinny bicep and she turns wide eyes to him and shivers. 

 

They really were quite blue. 

 

She stutters an apology, she hadn’t been paying attention, she’d been having a strange month, and another apology and his hand is still around her arm. She tells him that he’s hurting her, and he can see the wince she’s fighting on her face, those eyes tearing up. 

 

His nerves are on fire.

 

He offers an apology, he didn’t mean to grip so hard, he hadn’t been thinking, she had startled him. He stamps down a laugh. She gives him a small smile, her pink lips curving pleasantly and he licks his own. She says she is sorry again and he releases her, rubbing her shoulder and bicep, but she ducks away, her locks falling in front of her face. He brushes them away and she jumps, all doe-eyed and flushed, and backs away from him. She gives him a small wave, telling him she needs to go, and he nods to her, watching her hair trail behind her as it catches the light and glitters.

 

He hums as she disappears into an inn.

  
  


There was only a buzzing that infected his ears as whatever blood remained rushed to his skull, and he felt it drip over his face from the gaping maw where his mouth once was. He saw nothing, and his nerves had smouldered out some hours ago, between the calipers and coals and cutting blades. Something tore in his leg as he was hoisted up, but it drowned in his overloaded senses as his chest burned and he fought through the crushing ache that the motion jostling his fractured sternum wrought. Someone had begun to peel away the flesh of his side--probably Arquen, he would have thought with a smile--and the sting of dry air flooded him.

  
  


She touches his face, that last night: soft but sure, unlike her when it came to him. She touches his face, trailing her fingers over his jaw and up his cheek and over his brow, and presses a kiss to his lips with her little mouth and he lets himself hold her, lets himself stroke her hair and kiss her eyelids and graze her slight body with gentle hands that mind the bruises she’s acquired doing Sithis knows what, for him, for whoever’s been switching his dead drops...for the Emperor. His shoulders and spine clench, and when she starts he eases back into her. He kisses the broken blood vessels that began to bloom under the skin along her neck from his hands, earlier, when the knowledge of what she’d been doing had filled him with a blinding white-hot burn as it raced through his body, when he’d desired to rip and rend her flesh with his bare hands. To sever that lovely head from her body with practised ease.

 

And she did have such a slender neck. 

 

He kisses where he would have started, moving to her throat and biting down, and she gasps above him before he soothes the wounded skin with his tongue. Her lips are trembling when he returns to them, and she’s bitten them raw. They’re split and bleeding and he laps them up, and he thinks she is most beautiful like this: bloody and bruised, hair tangled and dark circles around her vibrant gaze as a flush dusts over her features. 

 

Later, much later, he tells her that he loves her. She does not say it back.

 

Nor does he expect her to.

  
  
  
  


It is dark now, not even the red fog from earlier burdens his sight, and cold. Soothing, deep, no light to spoil this black velvet, and the tension drains from him and he is whole again, and his mother cradles him in her frigid embrace and runs her skeletal fingers through his hair.

 

He is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another random update: I've been experimenting with writing styles and thought I'd try this out for my favourite assassin. I've always wondered what would go through his mind during his time at Applewatch after the Black Hand catches him, and this is just me working that out.


	6. The Last Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to a tumblr ask regarding this [post](https://silencebrulant.tumblr.com/post/169632603319/more-scenarios), and thought I'd add it here. Short and sweet, and an excuse to write my favourite dumpster pairing.

He lays with her in her shrouded room in Bravil, her fragrant hair skimming his chest as he breathes in and out, and in and out, sweetness and musk surrounding him now. Masser and Secunda peek in, a stream of light casting a writhing mass of shadows on the scuffed surface of the ground, and she shifts in her sleep, pressing her slight form against him. He can feel his heart knock on his sternum, almost worried the movement might jar her from her rest, and he glances down to watch those dark locks fall across her face, obscuring her relaxed features. He brushes the strands that drape over her back aside and he follows the path of broken blood vessels that trail up the knots of her ribs and band around her slim neck. 

She murmurs in her sleep. A name, not his. There’s a burning in his gut, and he swallows down the liquid fire that chokes his vocal cords and the jolt of lightning that tingles his palms.

  
   Instead, he strokes the back of her neck and teases the baby-fine hairs that grow there. 

  
   She curls into him to nuzzle his broad chest, and he catches her brows furrowing. Her soft exhalations send shivers skittering across his skin and he tightens his hold on her as he turns his face back towards the window, ice creeping down his spine, the light of the moons washing everything else out, and hears a scratch, and scuffle, or he thinks he does. He glances back to his companion who’s still asleep and still clinging to him like pale morning glories and still soft and still so sweet despite–

  
   She whispers a name. Not his. 

  
   He brushes the hair away from her face, again, the strands winding around his fingers and wrist and he clenches them in his palm, but releases it with a sigh, an ache forming behind his eyes, throbbing in time with the pulse of his blood. She whimpers when he rolls her onto her back, the sheet falling away from her and exposing her to his ravenous eyes, the silver light illuminating the dark petals that stain the flesh of her throat and thighs. She shivers. He pulls the covers back over her before he stands up, feet touching the frigid floorboards, and his spine cracks and pops as he stretches. He shrugs his shoulders back, feeling the muscles protest as he drops his head from side to side. 

  
She frowns, a pout forming on that mouth, and he picks up his discarded robes from the foot of the bed, discarded in haste, and shrugs it on, and then his breeches and boots, before sliding his gloves over his hands, and he stands straighter and shakes his head. Her soft breathing fills the room, and he stops, fingers hovering over his cowl. He bends down, breathing in that sweetness and musk that surround her, that lingers in his clothing, soft and mellow and constant. He touches her cheek and feels her press against it, her face relaxing once again, her breath tickling his the stubble that lines his chin and jaw. 

  
He kisses her, her little mouth pliant against him, and she sighs against him as he strokes her, his hand trailing down her jaw to her neck, and he caresses her throat, cradling her neck with his hand, and the blackened skin there is hidden. His lips move, insistent now, and he nips at her, swallowing her whine. When he withdraws, she slumbers on, and he stands once again, pulling the hood over his own face, and turns to leave.

  
   She murmurs a name.


	7. 2nd of Morning Star 4E 04

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daedra being daedra, and Felicienne only wants to live like everyone else.
> 
> Some people don't agree.

Felicienne hummed in the dark hours of the early morning, looking out of the frost-covered window panes, as she kneaded the dough for the bread she planned on baking for that night’s dinner. Cassius Aelianus had decided he should come over for dinner, and Felicienne hadn’t bothered to argue. The man was kind enough, and he usually brought a little something for Faustus, despite the boy’s vehement dislike of him. And she didn’t want to be a bad hostess. Eirlys wouldn’t have liked that. 

 

She probably would have taken a wooden spoon to her backside.

 

Felicienne allowed herself a small smile and a giggle escaped her lips. 

 

She dragged the back of her flour covered hand across her forehead, streaking it--and some of her hair--with the white powder. She went back to working the dough, engrossing herself in the monotonous action.

 

“You’d make quite the little wife, wouldn’t you?”

 

Instead of letting out a scream and spinning around as she would have done just a few months earlier, she sighed, her shoulders slumping, and continued to press her palms against the mixture. 

 

“You cannot keep popping into my home, Sanguine,” she mumbled, her eyes fixed on the daedra’s reflection in the glass before her. “What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked, arching a brow. 

 

“I thought I’d come keep you company,” he said, and she narrowed her eyes at the grin on his face.

 

“How charitable of you,” she said after a moment. “Keeping the company of a poor widow like myself, raising a child alone, considering her need for companionship.” She turned around, glare fixed onto her features. “What do you want?” Then, she frowned, her eyes looking him up and down. “And don’t you have a more...inconspicuous form you could take?” she asked, her voice verging on a whine. “What if my neighbors see you? Matilde already hates me; I don’t need her spreading rumours that I’m consorting with daedra.” Felicienne cringed as his face transformed into a smirk. “Er, you know what I mean,” she stammered. “Get your mind out of the gutter. Or does it just permanently live there, you deviant.”

“Well, if you’re offering…” he trailed off with a leer, and she crossed her arms, ignoring the smudges of flour that would be on her frock. 

 

“You’re a pig,” she told him, though it didn’t appear to dampen his spirits. 

 

They were both silent for a moment, her cheeks glowing before she turned around back to her task, and she heard him move behind her, and frowned when she noticed him standing next to her. 

 

“A widow, huh?” he questioned. “Is that what you’ve been telling everyone?”

 

Her flush deepened and she ducked her head. “It’s a great deal more respectable than telling people I was knocked up by a vicious killer who was--in turn--brutally murdered.” Her voice caught on the last couple of words, dying in here throat, before she cleared it and ignored the sting behind her eyes.

 

She could practically feel the daedra next to her radiating irritation. She didn’t glance up to see him roll his eyes, though she sensed the motion, and her brows knitted together.

 

“Aren’t you a vicious killer yourself? So weren’t you two a match made in Aetherius? All set to raise your little bastard together. Maybe on a quaint little farm, and he’d work the land while you nursed however many offspring he gave you,” he mocked, but she continued kneading the dough, keeping silent. She heard him sigh and cross his arms. “Don’t be like that: I’m only teasing.”

 

“You’re trying to upset me and you know it,” she muttered. He didn’t appear inclined to say anything else, so she broke the stillness between them. “You can be very sweet to me, surprisingly sweet, when you want to be,” she began, “but sometimes,” she said, turning her face up to gaze at him, though he turned his own away, “you can be so pointlessly cruel. And I don’t know what I’ve done to you to deserve that.”

 

“Ah, come on,” he weedled, recovering from his sudden inability to talk, “you take things too seriously, little mortal. Little daedra,” he chuckled. She sniffled and tilted her head back down, and blinked back the moisture that had gathered around her blue irises. “Hey, come on now,” he stammered, “er, don’t cry. You know I didn’t mean anything by it,” he tried, but a tear still made its way down her cheek, and she brushed it away, the rough fabric of her sleeve scratching the flesh there. “Don’t cry; it feels weird when you cry. Come on,” he complained, patting her shoulder, the motion hesitant, and she almost laughed. 

 

“You’re absolute shit at comforting people, you know that?” she sniffled. 

 

“It isn’t exactly in my sphere, you know. You want comfort, pray to Mara, or whoever,” he mumbled, his hand still heavy on her. She shrugged it off, ducking under his arm to place the loaf near the oven, the heat emanating off of it and warming her hands. 

 

Her head snapped up when she heard the stairs creak, her eyes wide and face pale. 

 

“Mama?” she heard from down the hall.

 

She whipped around and opened the pantry door before she grabbed Sanguine’s arm and began to pull him towards it. She shoved him inside the larder before he could protest and she hissed, “Shut up,” and slammed the door in his face. 

 

When she looked up, little Faustus was standing just outside the kitchen and she laughed. 

 

“What are you doing up so early, baby?”

 

“I had a bad dream,” he said. “And I thought I heard you talking to someone. Is it that man?” His small face took on a scowl and she walked over to him and stroked his hair. 

 

“No, sweetheart, Mama was just talking to herself; you know how silly I can be.”

 

“But I heard a man’s voice,” he insisted.

 

Her face went even whiter, and she stuttered, “Maybe you were still dreaming?”

 

He nodded, but she thought he didn’t look too convinced. 

 

“Anyway,” she continued, “He isn’t coming over until dinnertime. Can you behave when he does?”

 

He was still for a moment, before he nodded, glaring at the floor. 

 

“Don’t be like that,” she chided. “He’s a nice man. And I’m sure he’ll have something for you, too.”

 

“I don’t want anything from him,” Faustus stated, thin arms crossed in front of him.

 

“Faustus,” she warned.”

 

“Fine, Mama.” He pouted.

 

“Go back to bed,” she told him, giving him a kiss on his forehead. “The sun won’t be up for quite some time yet.”

 

After the boy padded back up the stairs, she let out a long sigh, relief flooding her bloodstream, and she heard the squeal of the larder door opening. She held back a groan as she turned around to see the daedra back in her kitchen.

 

“I thought you might have left,” she confessed. “Or rather, I’d hoped you left.”

 

“That wasn’t very polite, you know, shoving your guest into the pantry like that,” he whined. 

 

She fixed him with a stare, her hands on her hips. “You weren’t exactly invited, Sanguine.” Then, her lips twisted into a moue as she bit the inside of her cheek, gnawing at the flesh there, and looked up at him. “Why  _ do _ you keep coming here? I don’t hold the Rose anymore. I haven’t for some time. I’m not even one of your worshippers,” she pointed out, before she mumbled, “Thank the Nine.” 

 

“That’s hurtful.”

 

“That’s too bad.”

 

He frowned. “And when did you get so tough?”

 

She ignored his question and repeated her own. “Why are you here?”

 

His expression morphed into something she couldn’t quite read, something she didn’t recognize and didn’t want to inquire about. He appeared to regard her for a long moment before she sighed. “Fine, keep your secrets. I don’t need them.”

 

They were both quiet for some time, and Felicienne squirmed under his gaze and pulled at the hems of her sleeves. 

 

“So,” he said at last, “you have company for dinner?” he asked with a raised brow. 

 

She flushed and wrapped her arms around herself. “I do. Cassius. Not that that’s any of your business,” she rushed. 

 

His face twisted into something she thought might be disgust. 

 

“ _ Him _ ?” he asked, lips curled, and Felicienne felt herself bristle under his scrutiny. 

 

“He’s  _ nice _ , damn it.”

 

“He’s boring,” Sanguine sniped, and Felicienne glared up at him. 

 

“I’m not sure if you noticed, but I could use some boring in my life.”

 

“Your life is already boring!” he exclaimed. “What do you do? Get up, start breakfast, go into town—as much of a town Bravil is—and raise your little brat? Maybe on a particularly exciting day, you’ll have company,” he paused before snarling, “like today.”

 

“What is your problem?” she snapped. Her spine was stiff and she felt the nape of her neck prickle. Then, she took a step back and her glare melted into a frown. “And, how do you know what I do? Have you been watching me?” she asked, blood rushing in her ears. She thought she might have caught him off-guard, by the way he shifted his weight and seemed to find everything around her more interesting than speaking with her. 

 

Felicienne was about to press the issue farther, when his attention snapped back to her and she wrapped her arms around her waist, swallowing, and he began to close the distance between them. She jumped and her back hit the counter, jarring the cabinet doors and flour-dusted cutting board. He stopped short and huffed. “Why don’t you ever visit one of my realms?” he asked.

 

She blinked a few times, then squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “What?” she questioned, her voice breathy as she tightened her grip around herself. She opened her eyes and shook her head again. “I’m very confused. Or you’re confused.  _ What? _ ”

 

“We could go now, actually,” he continued, taking on his normal, carefree tone once again.”

 

“I have a  _ child _ , Sanguine. I can’t just  _ leave _ \--”

 

“Drop him off with one of your neighbors,” Sanguine insisted. “Or the temple, I don’t know.”

 

“You’re insane,” Felicienne mumbled, staring up at him. “That’s the only explanation. You’ve gone mad. Or I’ve finally gone mad and I’ve been hallucinating you in some sort of weird fever-dream.”

 

“You dream about me?” he leered.

 

“How on Nirn did you get that from what I said?” she almost shrieked. 

 

“Oh, come on,” he said, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards him. “Let’s go have some fun for once.”

 

She struggled in his grasp, trying to pull her arm from his grip. “I’m not particularly interested in you brand of ‘fun’ Sanguine.” She tried again to free herself, and smothered a scream of frustration as she pushed at his cloth-covered chest. “Damn it,  _ let me go _ !” A weight settled in her stomach as acid burned her oesophagus during their brief scuffle. Her heart hammered against her sternum and she felt bruises blooming along her bicep and her throat seemed as though it were closing, blocking her airway. She swallowed a few times to dislodge the sensation.

 

“Why are you fighting so hard?” he huffed. She thought he sounded irritated--perhaps angry--and a cry bubbled in her chest. “It’s going to be  _ fine _ . You need to learn to loosen up. Have a good time. Just forget about your dinner tonight with Mr. Stuffed-Shirt Imperial,” he jeered. “I have a realm I think you’d like,” he continued, dragging the woman along with him, “really,” he insisted. “It’s not too different from the Isles; you liked that place, this just has less insane folk.” 

 

His grip became harder, painful, and she felt her throat grow thick with cotton and her blood turn to ice in her veins.

 

“ _ You’re scaring me! _ ” she shouted, then clapped her free hand over her mouth, her gaze darting from Sanguine to the doorway of the kitchen, peering into the darkness and straining her ears. He dropped her arm, his brows drawing together, and he opened his mouth, but Felicienne shook her head with enough force that she could have sworn her skull rattled with it. She felt the now-familiar prick of tears behind her eyes. “Why are you being like this?” she pleaded. “Why do you keep tormenting me? Haven’t I paid enough?” she begged. “I don’t know what else I can do to make up for the Rose,” she said, crying now and cradling her aching limb against her body. “You’re always there,” she accused. “Every time I think you’re gone, you pop back into my life again! What can I do to finally be rid of you?” she hissed. She went quiet when she saw his thunderous expression, and she was reminded, again, that he wasn’t just a daedra.

 

And she didn’t have an emperor who could turn into a dragon-god with her this time.

 

She saw him clench his jaw and her stomach turned on itself and her hands began to shake as she raised them, crossed at the elbows, and clutched her bony shoulders, feeling those tremble as well. He’d said it before, that he could break her in half. She wondered if he planned to carry that through, now. 

 

“You think this is about the Rose?” he gritted out, and her face drained of colour. She nodded, then saw him take a step back and run his hand through his hair, and she watched it as it fell back in place along his horns. “You want me to leave you alone,” he said, a statement, not a question, she noted. 

 

She froze, unsure of what to answer. She had grown too casual with him, taking for granted his easy-going demeanor, his good humour.

 

His rather mortal-like qualities.

 

“Answer me,” he demanded, jerking her back to the realisation he was considered one of the more powerful Princes, had been one of the daedra to transform Jyggalag into Sheogorath--and she idly wondered if that gave him any influence over  _ her _ as well--when he loomed over her, his head nearly reaching her ceiling. “Answer. Me,” he bit out. 

 

She coughed, her throat coated with sand, and she shrank away from him before finding her voice. “Y-yes,” she stammered, cheeks burning at the hitch in her voice. “Yes, I do,” she affirmed, her vocal chords more steady than they had been.

 

He seemed to falter, and she slumped, thinking he might listen, before she saw his scowl and he backed her against the wall. “Well, isn’t that just too bad for you,” he growled. “I’m not sure if it’s escaped your notice,  _ little mortal _ ,” he sneered, pressing against her, not quite touching, but close enough she could feel the heat rolling off of him, even through his robes, “but I am a Daedric Prince; you can’t summon and dismiss me on one of your fickle whims,  _ Champion _ .”

 

“I’m not fickle!” she told him, her teeth grinding against each other. “And don’t call me that; you know how much I hate it.”

 

“Should I call you Sheogorath, then?” Her lips trembled at his taunt and she tried to back up, and he slammed his palm into the wall behind her. She flinched at the sound, and he let out a rough laugh. “You’re not a Daedric Prince yet; you do not tell me what I can and cannot do. I am not a mindless scamp,” he paused, his face darkening, “and you are  _ not _ my equal,” he said to her, his voice low enough to reverberate in her bones. His black eyes peered into hers, and her world began to dim around the edges of her vision, her face growing hotter by the second while, at the same time, her lips tingled with cold. She felt the muscles of her limbs growing loose and weak, and her knees began to buckle beneath her. 

 

She felt his hand encircle her arm, propping her back up.

 

“Don’t go swooning on me,” he mumbled, drawing away from her as her stance strengthened. “You’re fine,” he snapped.

 

Her eyes filled again, and she cursed under her breath as she pressed her palms against them, feeling her shoulders shake and her chest heave as it struggled to contain her voice. 

 

“Mama?” she heard echo down the stairwell. 

 

The little voice seemed to jerk both her and Sanguine out of whatever stand-off they found themselves in with one another.

 

“I-I’m coming, sweetheart,” she called out, her wide eyes fixed on the daedra, who huffed and pulled away from her completely. 

 

She dashed towards the main room, on the way to the stairs and Faustus’ room, and she turned around to face her visitor, once again, and let out a trembling breath. “Please,  _ please _ can you be gone when I get back down here?” she asked. “I don’t...I don’t want Faustus involved in any of this. I know you don’t owe me anything,” she hurried, “but  _ please _ don’t show yourself to him. I’ll do anything,” she promised. “I’ll do anything as long as you don’t show yourself to Faustus. He’s just a boy,” she pleaded with Sanguine. 

 

“Anything, is that right?” he queried, and she noted he looked thoughtful. “You shouldn’t make that sort of deal with a daedra, you know,” he said. “Because I’ll hold you to it,” he warned.

 

“I-I know. But I mean it: whatever you want,” she insisted.

  
  
  


He gazed at her, and she looked so very small standing there in the entryway to her little kitchen as the sunlight began to peek into the room. So very small, shuddering in her dark green frock, stained with smears of flour; the same flour that dusted her cheeks and hair, her doe-like eyes limpid in the gloom of early dawn. 

 

“I’ll hold you to it,” he repeated, and he watched her throat bob before she nodded.

 

“I know,” she whispered.

 

He let out a scoff, before telling her, “You know you’ll see me again, little mortal.”

 

“I know.”

 

He gave a curt jerk of his head, and disappeared. 

  
  
  


Later on, Felicienne sent a note to Cassius, apologising profusely for cancelling dinner--much to her son’s delight--and letting him know she had become ill, taking her by surprise as it had come on just that morning. She promised to reschedule once she was feeling better, and she received a chivalrous letter in return, wishing her well and requesting she let him know if she was in need of anything. 

 

She frowned, Sanguine’s words from the previous year resurfacing. 

 

_ You like them mean, don’t you? _

 

She shook her head, clearing her mind, as she made her way back to bed, pulling the covers over her head and sobbing into her pillow.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm back. This was just a little piece I wrote to get back into that habit of writing more consistently. I want to thank everyone for their patience; I just want to make sure I get chapter three of the second branch of WKaB written before I publish the next chapter. Hopefully this will allow me to get back to my regular updating schedule.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry this is trash. Please forgive any mistakes; I do try to edit, but I know some errors sneak through.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on [Tumblr](https://silencebrulant.tumblr.com) to keep up with my trash.


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